He shrugs before pulling himself up next to me. He gets to his feet and walks across the truck bed until he reaches the back, then drops down among one half of the pillows. “I’m an asshole, Jessie.” He looks at me slowly. “I’m not Prince fuckin’ Charming and I ain’t ever gonna pretend to be. Except for maybe that one time in the café.”

I fight my smile.

“But I’m not so much of an asshole that I’ll make you do shit you don’t wanna do. Jesus, baby, you don’t wanna dress up in fancy shit for a fancy meal you’re gonna hate every second of, then don’t do it. It’s just that simple. If you’d rather have pizza and wear yoga pants, then we’ll do that for our fake date. But I draw the line at shitty rom coms.”

My heart thaws toward him. Just a little. “Then why didn’t you ask me if I was okay with it? The fancy meal.”

“Because I’m a guy, and my default is ‘presumptuous bastard.’ ”

I look at him and smile, turning my whole body toward him. I want to agree with him—tell him he’s right. He is a presumptuous bastard. That a bunch of red roses and a dinner summons isn’t the way to make me even want to pretend to be his girlfriend. And that’s exactly what I say.

He tilts his head, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing what seems like barely-there outlines of small tattoos curving across the top of his chest. “Red roses, huh? How’d you like those?”

“That sounds awfully like you don’t know what flowers you sent me.” I raise an eyebrow.

“There’s a chance I may not know the difference between roses and daisies and enlisted some help.”

“Basically, you asked Ella.” A smile threatens as he pauses, taken off guard. “It’s okay. Whatever. But, um . . . I’m sorry.”

He turns to me slowly. “Did you drink before you came out?”

Ignoring him, I continue. “For what I said. Just then. About having to be drunk to sleep with you. That was uncalled for.”

“Don’t sweat it, sunshine. You could have said ‘blind.’ Or ‘stupid.’ Or ‘dead.’ ”

I swallow my laugh and crawl up the truck.

“Totally just saw right down your dress.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, tugging my dress up and down at the same time as I settle into a corner and reach for a blanket. The radio is playing quietly as I pull the cover over my legs, making it pool around my waist, and lean back to look at him. He rolls his head to face me as I pick at a loose thread on the corner of my blanket. “I wouldn’t have to be drunk to sleep with you. Or not as drunk as I just made out. At all. I mean, it wasn’t bad. Sleeping with you, that is. Being drunk is always bad, especially the next day. Sleeping with you was good.”

“Just good?”

“Oh shit.” I run my hand down my face. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t need to be drunk, okay? Just maybe tipsy. Or merry. Or happy. Or high on sugar or something. I can think of worse things is what I think I’m trying to say. Oh my God, why am I allowed to talk? Why has my voice not been taken away?” I clap my hand over my mouth, but remove it instantly. “I need to shut up. Like, now. Because I’ve already made a total ass of myself. Like, ten times over. Holy—”

He’s leaning over me, grinning, white shirt tight and straining across his shoulders and upper arms. One hand is gripping the side of the truck bed and the other is coming up to cup my chin and tilt my face up until our mouths are a breath apart and I don’t know how to breathe that breath or think or move or breathe or move or breathe.

“Jessie,” he whispers, so much in my name. So much, but just nothing. So much nothing but so much everything. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” I squeak, because that breath of space becomes a nothing of space, and the only thing I know is the firm press of his lips covering mine and his fingertips holding my jaw.

This kiss wasn’t meant to happen—not like this, just us two, in I don’t even know where, in the back of his truck with the radio buzzing quietly, pillows and blankets surrounding us and the stars blinking through the trees.

It was supposed to be a forced kiss in front of cameras.

Not one that feels kind of real with no one but the darkness as a witness.

But, for the life of me, as his hand curves around the back of my neck and I clutch his shirt in my hands, I can’t bear to pull away. As warmth and desire and the unrelenting feeling of being wanted for just a split second worms its way through my body in a sensation so strong it could easily become addictive, there’s nothing I want to do more than sit here in the back of his truck like a couple from a part-swoony, part-corny country song, and let Aidan Burke kiss me until he gives me back the breath he just stole.

“Getting another tattoo is not the way to deal with this situation,” Chelsey grumbles, flicking through a magazine in the corner of the room.

The needle buzzes as Jay inks across my upper arm, coloring my latest addition in a shade of bright pink. He snorts quietly, more a cough than anything, and wipes my arm. I glance at him, bleached-blond short hair, tattoos covering every inch of his exposed skin, and a stretching plug in his ear. Behind him, the walls of his tattoo room are covered in designs from the cute to the elaborate yet terrifying you’ll-be-here-all-week tattoos. Some photos are immediately above his desk, and each of these features one of his favorites. I’m up there with my sleeve, the colors standing out from the mostly black-and-white creations.

“It doesn’t count if it’s just coloring in,” I argue. “The tattoo has already been done. It can’t all be done at once. Besides, flowers need color.”

“And you, my friend, need psychiatric help.” She shuts the magazine with a sigh as Jay chuckles. “Girl, sticking a needle into yourself over and over is not the way to deal with your issues.”

“It’s worked pretty well for her so far,” Jay offers, still inking me.

“Yes, Mr. Tattoo Man, thank you,” she sighs again. “Jessie, seriously. You can’t just run here whenever you have something you need to deal with. You can’t hide behind a needle forever.”

“Chels, you’re implying I have issues I need to work through. I don’t, not right now. This appointment was booked when I finished the outline, okay?” Or, you know, I called this morning on the off chance my favorite tattooist would have a cancelation.

“Of course.” Pages swish as she flicks through the magazine I’ve now determined to be Vogue. “Nothing to do with your date that wasn’t a date last night.”

“Date that wasn’t a date?” Jay questions. “Why didn’t you mention this? I’d have fit you in earlier.”

“Ha!” Chelsey slams the magazine against her legs. “I knew you were lying with that prebooked appointment shit!”

I glare at her. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell Jay. “It wasn’t a date.”

No matter how much it felt like one. Or that I can still feel Aidan’s lips pressing against mine, his tongue tracing my lower lip, his fingers burning into the skin at the back of my neck or twining themselves into my hair.

Seriously.

It wasn’t a date.

I don’t care what anyone—or I—say. It. Wasn’t. A. Date. It couldn’t have been further from one.

But if this was real and that was our first date, I’d probably be in love with him already.

It wasn’t, though, so I’m not.

“Jessie, you both bailed on dinner and gave the photographers the slip, then you hung out in his truck for like three hours.” Chels sighs. “That’s a date, girl. A real date.”

It’s a good thing I never mentioned the making out. “No. It’s the avoidance of a real date. That’s totally different.”

“No.”

“Leave it alone, Chels!” I snap. “Stop trying to convince me it was a real date. It wasn’t. I can’t stand him and you know it. It’s a real date when I actually want to be within ten feet of him. Hell, it’s a real date when I say it’s a real date.”

“I’m with her.”

I turn my head at the sound of Aidan’s voice cutting through the quiet buzz of the tattoo needle. “Um, hi?”